I release the sewer grate and climb into the darkness, the stars my only light. I stay close to the alley in case German police scope the streets. My family is starving and out of the three of us, I’m the least weak to make the walk, even though I stumble from fatigue. We’re all in angst living in sewage, but we have no other option.

Aron, my salvation in this wretched war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker

The healing came slow. A damaged psyche doesn’t show like a bruise. Her little boy needs her; she is everything to him and he is the world to her. But she needs to be whole for him.

More than a month of repair to start the recovery. Participation in daily activities was the first sign. A faint light at the end of the tunnel, but a light nonetheless. Her posture showed confidence. Then her gait picked up a bit. A twinkle returned to her eyes. Her journey would be long and arduous, but she was on her way to recovery.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Hi Dad, it’s me again. Still here on Earth. Still wishing to be where you are, engulfed in the brilliant light of peace and tranquility, behind gates guarded by ancestors from times never known to us. Still waiting for a sign, a rainbow, a white dove, anything that tells me things are better out there in the universe than they are here, right now. Still missing the opportunities that passed us by when we thought there were an infinite number of opportunities left. Still whispering unheard, unanswered prayers into the night sky. Still hoping the moonlight carries them to you.

From Guest Contributor Rhiannon DeCambra

This feels like the worst place one could possibly be – insurrectionists on the front steps, an unkindness of ravens in the yard, a side door that requires a sign explaining how to open it. I’m leaving for. . . I don’t know where. Maybe somewhere bombs would only ever kill the bomb makers. You can come if you wish. I can’t promise there’ll be roads and buildings made of spider silk or that lakes will gently bubble to the dreams of sleeping fish, but light will reach us even a million years after the source of light has gone out.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s latest poetry collection, Gunmetal Sky, is due in February from Thirty West Publishing,

Do it well, honey. My lover’s voice echoed inside me as I stabbed my wife repeatedly. Fear flashed in her doe-like eyes. She fell to the wet forest floor and crawled away. I grabbed her ankle and pulled. On my umpteenth attempt, my knife struck through her neck, severing her jugular vein. Blood splattered. The light faded out of her eyes. I rolled her up in a plastic sheet and buried her. Later, I stumbled into my home, choking on her perfume. There she stood in front of me. “What?” I gasped. She brandished a knife. Sharper than my own.

From Guest Contributor Fusako Ohki

Fusako Ohki is a Japanese writer from Tokyo. She obtained her master’s degree in Japanese literature from Hosei University. Her debut collection of short fiction is forthcoming in 2021.

The steppe beneath me speeds by as I become one with the wind. The monk on my back screams with joy. My hooves kick cotton clouds, and fresh air caresses my muzzle. I gallop toward a light in the distance. My tail flows freely. A small dot appears in the middle of the great plain and gradually becomes larger. A colorful, three-storied pagoda comes into view.

“See that, Rlung-rta? That’s our new home,” the monk says, his voice bouncing with excitement. He grabs my mane as we descend. “We’re reclaiming our faith,” he says with a smile, patting my neck.

From Guest Contributor Toshiya Kamei

Toshiya Kamei holds an MFA in Literary Translation from the University of Arkansas. His translations have appeared in venues such as Clarkesworld, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Strange Horizons.

The sliver of moon that hung in the dark sky was the only source of light on that cold evening. It had been raining for hours, and the parking lot was now a collection of puddles. Exhausted after a long day, the woman trudged across the lot to her car. She despised leaving work late, since she was still adjusting to her new life in the city. Preoccupied with thought, she didn’t realize that her new life was already over until she reached her car and found a note tucked under her windshield. “Found you,” it screamed in his handwriting.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her master’s degree in English as well.

The enormous house consisted of large acres of land with an abundance of flower and vegetable gardens. Violet’s only companion was her cat Missy.

In the basement, the deceased prior owner chortled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M.Scuderi-Burkimsher

It took millennia for the rays to alight atop the sky. As It saw them, It rejoiced. Its cold corpse rose from Its slumbering position. The light would not be long now. The radiance burnt the gray skies, who smoldered with violent violet rage, fading to baby blue embers. The trees near It unfurled their stalks, reaching lightwards towards the first sunbeams. Kaleidoscopic rays raked closer. It grinned giddily. So long to shadow and cold. The light finally, finally, finally touched the tops of the trees, which elongated upwards. And as It touched the sky’s embers It smiled, burning happily.

From Guest Contributor Kaleb Bjorkman

Kaleb is an aspiring poet, artist, and electrical engineer from Colorado Springs.